


The Instrument of Fate

by SensationalSunburst



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski, Witcher - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Instrument of Fate! Jaskier, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:21:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22644043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SensationalSunburst/pseuds/SensationalSunburst
Summary: Jaskier was an Instrument of Fate, charged with leading the living to Destiny, and he was good at what he did.He led Geralt -noble, stupidly handsome, outrageously stubborn- to his Destiny one adventure at a time.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 36
Kudos: 124





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've watched the series twice and I'm about 80 hours deep in the Witcher 3.  
> Send help.

Death’s pale horse was eating his garden. 

The massive white horse was mowing down the lilacs at the border of the massive meadow he called his own, snow white mane sparkling in the sun. 

“Can you make her stop?” Jaskier asked, resting his lute across his knees. The horse whinnied as if laughing and moved to the other side of his meadow to start in on his tulips.  “Death, seriously. Those were a gift!” 

Death’s shaded steps wilted the daises he'd so carefully cultivated as she approached, sinking silently to sit cross legged before him, matching his pose. And although her lace hood, inlaid with the image of belladonna, hid her face, Jaskier knew she was smiling at him. 

“Destiny has a job for you, Instrument.”

“Off probation, am I?” 

“Come now, songbird, did you think she would enjoy the concept of  _ ill fated lovers _ ?” 

Jaskier looked away, pouting as Death’s horse trampled over, leaving a trail of wilted dandelions in the imprint of her massive hooves. 

“I didn’t fate them for death, now did I?” Jaskier huffed. 

“You know well what you did; that story shall last forever.” Death said, “But that lies in the past. I am to bring you to your vessel.” Death stood, all silent grace and black lace fabrics and hefted herself atop her mount. 

“Wh- A vessel?” 

“You should play, kinglet.” 

Jaskier frowned, but resettled himself and swung his lute around his neck. 

After all, his songs had always brought comfort to the dead. 

* * *

“Who is that?” 

Jaskier, who Death had left to play in the middle of his field, looked up as a young boy’s voice rang across the clearing. Death was walking hand-in-hand with a dark haired little boy whose cream colored doubled was drenched and dripping with blood. Against the obsidian black of Death’s ensemble the boy’s small, pale hand looked like a snowflake, but his cornflower blue eyes were bright with wonder as he pointed a crimson hand at Jaskier. 

“That is an Instrument of Fate.” Death said. 

“You can call me Jaskier.” Jaskier swung his lute to his back and hunched down to avoid towering over him. 

“I’m Julian!” The boy said, swinging his free hand across his torso to bow, “It’s a pleasure to meet you Master Jaskier.” 

“The Instrument of Fate holds great power here,” Death said gravely, “If you ask, he shall surely help.” 

Julian’s face shriveled into uncertainty and he shrank into Death’s side, suddenly shy, and to knot his free hand in her skirts, pulling them out to shield him. 

At once, Jaskier felt the power of Death’s word, and the the unspoken order therein, jolt through him, lighting up the Music that usually laid dormant in his bones. His fingers itched, throat twitching with the need to  _ Sing  _ and he could see the glow of his own eyes reflecting in Julian’s. 

“ _ What do you desire? _ ” Jaskier sang. 

Julian glanced up at Death, his lip caught between his teeth, but when Death nodded her head, just once, the boy swallowed and announced, “I seek the path to the Golden Hall.” 

“ _ I can show you the way, o’ human child,  _

_ To halls of gold and forests wild, _

_ Walk with me, hand-in-hand. _

_ For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. _

_ And in return, give to thee, that which thou no longer needs.” _

Julian took a deep, bracing breath and stepped out from the shelter of Death's cloak, free hand shaking and outstretched, "It's a deal." 

"Well done, Julian." Death nodded as Julian firmly grasped Jaskier's outstretched hand, sealing the deal. Immediately, Jaskier heard the forest bowing and bending behind him, braiding themselves into the grand flowered archway. Light bloomed behind him, casting Julian in Jaskier's shadow as the door to the afterlife opened.

"Look at  _ that _ !" Julian pulled at Death's hand, dragging her behind him as he tore through the field, "Oh!  _ Oh _ , it's grandmother! Grandmother, it's me! It's Julian!" 

Jaskier let himself plop backwards to sit, exhausted and sad. Death's horse nudged her head against his shoulder insistently until he reached up to run his hands along her face. "I've a bad feeling about this." 

"This will be a long trip," Death said, soundlessly returning to his side, "Different than before." 

"What am I supposed to do?"

"What you've always done- guide someone to their Destiny. Get up." 

Jaskier stood but stumbled as his limbs grew short and small. His own clothing, simple and flowing and bright, shrank and dulled along with him, until he was dressed in the same bloodsoaked cream doublet that Julian had worn. 

_ That which he no longer needed.  _

It wasn't Jaskier's first time taking over the body of a mortal, but it was his first on one that was  _ injured.  _ Death ignored the wheezing, panicked breaths that Jaskier made as she scooped him up under his armpits and deposited him on her horse. 

"No, wait, the body isn't fixed," He said. Death ignored him in favor of mounting the horse herself and turning them towards the realm of the living. "The body, Death! How am I supposed to get anywhere in this? It's too small, it's injured- are you listening? The wound  _ killed _ the boy, how am I-" 

"That is  _ your  _ body now," Death said, power pulsing through her even cadence, "You had best take care of it. Humans are fragile." 

"-wait, wait, slow down, you haven't fixed it yet! It can't be  _ mine _ , how long do you expect this to take-" Death rode on, gaining speed. As they hurled through the tree the branches pulled themselves up and out of their way. The air was growing lighter, brighter, but there was a weight growing in Jaskier's chest, and fire burning along his ribs. 

"I wish I could spare you the pain, my dearest instrument, but it is a part of Life, I've not power there-" 

"Ow!  _ Ah,  _ Death, p-please! I don't understand, wait-" 

"Until next we meet, Jaskier. Good luck on the Path." 

* * *

When Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, was seven years old, he was kidnapped from his home and lost for three days. On the third, he was found by the witcher Vesemir, half-dead and  _ wailing.  _ When he’d healed, he was  _ different  _ than he’d been Before. It was common, the doctors had said, for such things to occur. But his family was distrustful. Julian had never shown such interest in his lessons. He’d never been so fearful of being hurt before. When he hurt himself, he was surprised, overreacting like it was the first time he’d ever broken a bone or cut himself. He seemed to talk to people who weren’t there. 

And sometimes, you could catch him unaware, crooning with a voice like bells, belting lyrics too old to have been his own, eyes just this side of too blue.

Perhaps, they said, he’d been replaced. 

* * *

Jaskier was being punished. He knew he was, he wasn’t sure  _ why _ , but being thrown into a mortal’s body? Experiencing  _ pain _ ? It couldn’t be anything  _ but  _ a punishment. When he was old enough by human standards, he left the lonely halls that Julian had called home. He opened himself to Destiny, waiting for her alarmingly faint touches to guide him. 

She led him silently throughout the Continent and even had him Sing on occasion, just like he used to, planting her seeds in the minds of men. However, more often than not, she left him to wander- to learn on his own.

But he’d always been a fast learner. 

He learned how to be liked ( and hated) fairly quickly; how to love in every sense of the word. 

Jaskier grew to love fine, bright fabrics and the smell of the ocean breeze on the air. He loved  _ food _ , but especially sweets, like fresh crisp apples coated in rich chocolates, or dense lemon cakes soaked and dripping with honey. He learned, through trial and error, to love the effect of  _ just enough _ wine on his thoughts and tongue. 

Jaskier learned to love the roar of a crowd and the press of skin against his own. He had no preference in partners although they told their own preferences to him, and he learned to love the special kind of  _ learning  _ that came with each new lover.

It was quite a good time, although he couldn’t quite figure out why he was there. The people he directed towards Destiny with his songs were  _ easy  _ jobs, not the kind that would require a vessel. Hell, he didn’t even know half of their names. He asked, of course, belting his questions into the wind but Destiny never responded; even Death ignored his calls. (He’d begged, on occasion. Death had stared him down silently as he learned what humans did not like, one close, bloody call at a time.) 

It looked like it was going to be a long assignment until one day, he felt Destiny  _ shove _ him into a tavern. She told him via the heaviness in his feet that he was to  _ stay  _ until she told him to leave.  To  _ wait _ , via the near frantic way his fingers carried his tune.

He kept his eyes closed for his first few songs because he knew they were glowing- and humans didn’t quite like that- even if they couldn’t see the glow, they could feel the otherness in his gaze. He opened them only when he was sure that Destiny had left, but then, when he bent to gather up bread, Destiny snatched him by the chin and showed him what he’d been kicked out of his meadow to do. 

He was almost hiding in the corner of the tavern, twin swords his only seatmates. Jaskier caught a glimpse of golden eyes with vertical, cat like slits before the realization dawned. _A witcher._

_ Too stubborn,  _ Destiny said, speaking to him for the first time in decades,  _ Bring him to me. _


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier was an Instrument of Fate and he was good at what he did. He led Geralt -noble, stupidly handsome, outrageously stubborn Geralt- to his Destiny one adventure at a time. 

It was difficult, particularly at first, and mostly because Geralt had a habit of leaving him behind. 

The elves, for example, were a nasty little deviation from Jaskier's intended destination for the Witcher. See, he had a plan, of sorts. Destiny didn't tell him her grand schemes but he could spot her handiwork throughout the Continent. Nilfgaard in particular spoke of Destiny starting a new chapter- or perhaps even scrapping a project and starting anew. Regardless, with upset on the horizon and with humans’ tendency to turn against the unknown in times of uncertainty, Geralt would need a good, solid reputation to protect him.

Jaskier knew, simply from word of mouth alone, that witchers, including Geralt, had _terrible_ reputations. Step one would be to change that. Which, if Geralt had stopped _leaving him behind_ would have been easy. 

But Jaskier couldn't Sing lies to weave his Threads- he needed truth. He needed to _witness_ Geralt acting like a hero in order to make people believe he was one. 

In the end, after getting the shit kicked out of him, it'd all worked out. Geralt's interactions with the legendary elven leader had the bones of a fine ballad, even if he had to twist the truth just a bit. 

"Where's your newfound respect?" Geralt rumbled. 

"Respect doesn't make history." Jaskier replied, quirking a lips into what he hoped was a smile. Geralt's face has twisted, eyebrows dipping together, but he said nothing, which was as much of an agreement as Jaskier was assuming he’d get. 

Jaskier could twist the _truth_ but he couldn’t twist Truth, and it was Truth that he Sang when he performed. _Friend of humanity_ , he Sang, and folk smiled and sang it back and then spread the word to everyone they knew- Geralt of Rivia was a champion, a _hero_ , deserving of ale and coin and smiles. 

The way the Witcher seemed to soften under the praise? Well, that was reward enough for Jaskier.

* * *

His Witcher, he'd learned, was the very definition of a man of few words. _W_ _hy_ , Jaskier didn't know; as it was abundantly clear that Geralt held plenty of strong opinions. 

He had, for example, extremely strong opinions about the generosity of strangers. 

Jaskier had Sang his heart out before Geralt left on a hunt for a fiend (since he’d been banned from following) desperate to Inspire him to caution. He’d grabbed for every Thread of Destiny he could and wrapped them around Geralt to try to keep him safe. Limericks for his swords, a clever rhyme to fortify the well worn lines of his armor, odes to snow white hair and couplets about clever cat eyes to keep him alert and active. 

He’d made it back just fine, covered in guts, but mostly unharmed, and had been so suspicious upon receiving a free room, bath, bed, ale and dinner at the inn that Jaskier had to convince him to stay. 

“They’re planning something,” He’d growled, eyes hidden behind the curtain of his own filthy hair. But curled as he was in the inn's largest tub he looked more like a pouting puppy than a vicious beast.

“They’re thankful,” Jaskier soothed, dumping more fragrant oils into the bath, “Let people show you gratitude, _for Destiny’s sake_.” 

“Last time I tried I was stoned.” Geralt said, then froze, fingers clawed against the side of the tub, just for a moment. The tension in his shoulders put the ropes of scars across his broad back into stark relief and Jaskier was stunned to realize that he didn’t know how many of those scars had been put there by _humans_. 

“I would ride with Death to burn them to the ground.” 

Geralt snapped his head around, brows lowered at the ferocity in Jaskier’s voice. For a moment it hadn’t even sounded like the bard at all. Jaskier, for his part, looked a little stunned as well, hands limply gripping at the towel in his hands. “Only animals bite the hand that feeds… or the hand that saves them from certain death at the hands of a monster.”

"The world is full of monsters." Geralt said. 

"It's a good thing is has you then, isn't it."

* * *

The problem with Geralt was that he was always _leaving_. 

He’d leave when Jaskier was asleep or in the middle of a performance or sometimes skip returning at all and by the time Jaskier found him he had new scars, new stories and new shadows in his eyes. 

Geralt didn’t need any more darkness but Jaskier could taste the sour, tragic lines of his destiny on the tip of his tongue. It was maddening. 

More maddening, was how long it took for Jaskier to recognize the flutter in his chest when he thought of Geralt. To differentiate the swoop in his stomach when he touched him from the tug his destiny. 

It wasn't until Cintra’s invitation _miraculously_ found him that he actually figured it out. The messenger was just as shocked as Jaskier to find the note in his satchel, but the moment Jaskier’s fingers touched it he could _feel_ Destiny upon it. The cream colored parchment was a summons in more ways than one.

This was _it_ , Jaskier knew. Whatever happened would be finally forcing Geralt to walk the Path that Destiny had chosen for him. There would be no turning back, no deviating. 

He'd have no further need for an Instrument of Fate. 

Jaskier crumbled the invitation in a shaking fist and smothered the pit in his stomach with a smile as Geralt sank with a groan into the tub, covered, once again, in gore. 

"Hardly the worst you've seen," Geralt said, Jaskier noted that the water against his chest visibly vibrated with his voice. He felt his face flushing and cleared his desperately dry throat.

"I know." Jaskier heaved a performative huff and set to work on the guts in the witcher's hair. 

"Then why's your heart beating like that?" Geralt shifted as the innkeep brought them more hot water and Jaskier took the excuse to hide his face. _Because I don't want to go_ , he thought, which was probably one of the most startling thoughts he'd ever had. 

Returning to his safe, peaceful meadow had been his goal for as long as he'd been human. Complete this mission, then find Death and force her to take him home. 

He didn't know when that priority had shifted. He couldn't pinpoint the moment when it changed to _Geralt_. Not his destiny, not guiding him to his Path, just… Geralt. 

He wanted to be the one to sing of Geralt’s adventures, to weave protection for his witcher in song. Jaskier wanted to be the one trusted to stitch Geralt’s wounds closed, to wash the monster guts from his hair. Who else would know to buy Geralt apples after hunt? Who else would know to go easy on the left side of his head because the years old scar there was tender? What else would ever possibly feel as good as standing beside him? As being the one to work a perfect, crooked smile onto his lips?

"I've gotten a very exciting invitation." Jaskier said instead, and spun himself into a crouch before Geralt's tub. "But I need a favor."

* * *

Queen Calanthe’s party was less of a disaster than it could have been, all things considered. 

Jaskier took the opportunity to Sing, eyes closed, until they called him off, but by then he'd already strung up at least half the party. The other half we're already tied up so elaborately in Destiny's strands that he had to continuously remind himself not to dodge them. She was in attendance as well, taking on form after form of noble or servant or guard, recognizable (as he'd never actually _seen_ her) by a Cheshire grin, long, lazy strides and her _voice._

Jaskier was very much distracted however, by the overall softness of Geralt's entire person. He'd allowed Jaskier to brush his hair out into soft strands of moonlight, to dress him in something other than tired leathers. Jaskier's heart had been beating overtime the entire evening as he watched Geralt's slitted pupils dilate when he flitted near, watched him tilt his head, watched his lips twist up in a smile just for Jaskier. 

_You love him._ Jaskier could have easily dismissed the thought as his own if not for the shocked and delighted tone. 

_How could I not?_ Jaskier returned, mentally gesturing towards the Witcher as he, at Jaskier's pleading look, refrained from verbally murdering a set of boasting nobles. 

Destiny laughed. He had half a mind to be offended, but then Death arrived and everything went to hell in a hand basket for a while.

* * *

Geralt disappeared for while after the incident with the Child Surprise, not that Jaskier could really blame him. But it would have been easier if he'd at least made some waves when he went off. As it was, it took Jaskier months to find him again, following cold trails and snippets of Fate back and forth across the Continent. 

Of course, when he did find him again, it was when Geralt was looking for, of all things, a djinn. 

The very thought of them sent shivers up Jaskier’s spine and he was reaching for the seal immediately. Anything that could disrupt Destiny’s plans was not to be trifled with. 

But somewhere in the tug of war that ensued, a game he couldn’t have hoped to win to begin with, the seal broke, and everything went a little sideways. 

Choking on blood, panicking, Jaskier spotted Death standing just on the other side of the river. As always, her face was hidden behind a black lace shroud but for the first time in his memory, he could see her eyes. White as pearls, he could tell they were focused on the blood pooling beneath him in the dirt, rather than on himself. It terrified him. 

Delirious with pain, he realized as another cough forced him to double over, one hand clawed in his shirt, that Death was there for _Geralt_. She had to be, as Jaskier had been certain that he was about to be unceremoniously dumped back into his meadow, ill or bleeding or both on many occasions and he hadn’t seen her. The last time Jaskier had was when he’d first gotten his body and she’d set him down amongst the corpses of bandits and horses without even staying to watch him writhe in the grass with unfamiliar blood pouring over unfamiliar hands. 

She was there for Geralt, _obviously_ , and Jaskier had the abrupt realization that he couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let her take him to the Golden Hall- beyond where Jaskier could go. She couldn’t take him away when Jaskier had only just _found_ him. There was more, he knew, that he had to do for Geralt; more arrows to help him dodge, princess to have him save, leaps to ensure he didn’t miss.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, “Stop- stop moving, you’re hurting yourself.” Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s hands where they were weakly grabbing at his shirt. “Stop.” He cupped Jaskier’s cheeks, forcing his head still and ducked until Jaskier was forced to meet his eyes, blocking his view of the specter in the corner, “Calm. You’re going to be fine.” 

“Geralt.” Jaskier felt blood dribbling past his lips, darkness blooming at the corners of his voice, and watched as something wild overtook Geralt’s golden eyes. Between one blink and the next, he was dangling over the witcher’s broad shoulders, leaving Death in the dust. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets, secrets  
> Are no fun  
> Unless they're shared   
> with everyone!

It took an embarrassingly long time for Jaskier to figure out that the fluttering in his chest at the sight of Geralt was something other than Destiny’s call. Embarrassing, as Jaskier had dedicated a sizable portion of time to the complete a thorough study of love. He’d collected the stories and written the songs. He’d gotten quite proficient at falling in, then out, then back in love with countless people. He was an expert, he figured, in love. 

But in  _ heartbreak _ ?

He was a novice. 

On the mountain top with a dragon turned man spouting Destiny’s secrets in the wake of a furious sorceress, Jaskier learned the true meaning behind the word. Geralt gouged out his heart with words as finely sharpened as his swords and suddenly, Jaskier couldn’t breathe. 

“That’s- it’s not my fault, I’m just- it’s just-”

“Instruments of Fate aren’t free to ignore Destiny,” Borch interrupted calmly. 

“ _Be_ _quiet_.” Jaskier turned on Borch, eyes wild and shoulders hunched.. 

“He didn’t know?” 

Geralt took a single step forward, face unreadable in the shadow of the sunset, and although Jaskier had the high ground he could feel Geralt and his fury towering over him. His chest twisted itself into knots, pushing the breath from his lungs. He choked out a weak excuse,  _ story from the others _ , and fled. He wasn’t stupid; you don’t bleed around predators. 

“Death,” He hissed, choking too hard on the pain crushing his heart to be able to shout, “Death, where are you? I need you,  _ please _ . Please take me back, I don’t want to be here anymore.” There were tears in his eyes, blurring his vision once he was certain he was out of Geralt’s hearing range and he let them out, heedless of where he was going as long as it was  _ away _ . “I know you can hear me! Please,  _ please  _ take me home.”

* * *

Jaskier  _ fled _ from him.

Jaskier fled from him, reeking of sweat and fear and the salty stench of tears. Geralt's hands creaked into fists as Jaskier made his way down the mountain, first walking but then, after a moment, sprinting, his crimson form shrinking and fading in the distance. Sprinting because he'd been afraid. Geralt had  _ frightened _ him; he'd made his bard think he was going to hurt him. Guilt struck out at his heart, tearing through his busted armor and carved a hole for itself in his chest to settle heavily in his stomach. 

"You may as well have killed him yourself, Witcher, twould be more merciful." Borch was still sitting there, Geralt realized, calm as anything. Uncaring of the utter ruin he'd just wrought on Geralt's life. 

Geralt snarled like a wounded animal, spinning to keep his back from the beast. He didn't need any more knives in it. 

"It'll disappear once it's done, you know." 

"What?" 

"Your Instrument is bound to you by Destiny, you fool, it has no reason to be here if you've rejected its guidance. Since that one was forced into a mortal shell, it'll die." Borch said, eyes narrowed. When he blinked, they looked distinctly reptilian, the glamour lifting for just a moment. A reminder, as Geralt itched to swing his blade. 

"I don't- I don't understand." 

"Destiny builds paths for all of us, boy. When the path is of particular importance she may use an Instrument to guide you." 

"It's a figure of speech, not a creature." 

"Not a creature," Borch countered, "An entity, in this case, a bard." He stood and approached fearlessly to look up at Geralt with the kind of reproachful glare that he recognized from Vesemir's stern lectures. "An entity bound to Destiny in a way that goes beyond your own comprehension and sentient like you or I. Feeling, I suspect, in a way far deeper than you know. They often go unseen in this world- just the little nudges you don't even register. Yours? Yours was made into a man, a  _ mortal _ , doomed to grow and cursed to die like everything that truly lives. How could you not tell? Is that just for show?" 

Borch gestured to Geralt's medallion where it sat humming against his skin. 

At once, a mystery that Geralt has long since dismissed was solved. 

When Jaskier sang, really  _ performed,  _ Geralt had attributed the sudden singing of his medallion to the fact that Jaskier was playing the lute that the elves had given him. It made sense to him that an elven lute coupled with the crystal quality of Jaskier’s voice would result in a bit of Chaos. 

“Now’s not the time for rumination, my boy.” Borch said, “It’s time for you to go. Reclaim your destiny lest you wish to end up like me.” The dragon dipped his head and moved past Geralt, up towards the mouth of the cave where a new life and a fresh death awaited. 

Geralt ran.

* * *

“Oi, Witcher.” 

Geralt had half a mind to keep going, ignoring the company of dwarves as he descended the cursed fucking mountain. Roach, tuned as always to his mood, stomped at the dust, causing the dwarves to dart back. 

“You’d not believe what we just saw-” 

“Fuckin’ hell, we need to go-” One cried, pointing down the mountain, “T’was was Death herself, you all saw her!” 

“What?” 

“Aye! T’was the Lady Death, riding her white horse after your bard, man!” 

Geralt was not a man prone to fear, but there was something horribly familiar about the pit that opened in his stomach as the dwarves continued to describe the horse and rider. All in black on a pure white horse, the hoofprints of which had withered the plants around it. They pointed out the tracks, revealing that the horse in question was massive, judging by its stride and the size of the prints. 

“Explains why your man looked so upset, Witcher.” 

Geralt didn’t bother with a response, urging Roach into a gallop and scattering the dwarves to a chorus of curses. 

The tracks weren’t hard to follow. The wake of their destruction increased in radius as they approached the other side of the mountain. Withered grass gave way to blacked trees, their ashen leaves carpeting the ground in a clear-cut towards an inevitability that made Geralt’s hands grip Roach’s reins until they went numb. 

Suddenly, Roach reared back, refusing to continue. Geralt swore, but slid from her back rather than try to use Axii to force her forward. Her reluctance was indication enough that he was close. He followed the trail of death forward, moving as quickly and silently as he could. 

“Please,  _ please _ , I don’t want to be here anymore!” He could hear Jaskier in the distance, voice cracking and pitched as if in pain. “Can’t you see I’m fucking dying?” 

“You are not.” It was a woman’s voice, even, but undeniably exasperated. 

“I am!” Jaskier was crying, Geralt realized, “It  _ hurts _ , you don’t understand, it hurts so much, I’m dying, I have to be.” 

“You are brokenhearted, Instrument, the injury is not physical.” The woman sighed, but the sound was flat, as if she were unaware how to properly emote. 

Jaskier was  _ crying _ , bent at the waist with his arms around himself like it was the only thing keeping him together. Before him, in a circle of withered dandelions, there was a woman dressed head to toe in black lace. Her face was hidden behind a mourning shroud, and although it should have been visible, Geralt could see nothing but shadow. 

“What did I do wrong? Why is Destiny punishing me like this?”

“Jaskier.” Geralt stepped into the clearing, but kept his sword sheathed. 

“Geralt?” Jaskeir looked horrified, embarrassed, face streaky around red eyes that had never seemed quite so blue. He frantically wiped at his face and dove clumsily to hide behind the woman. She seemed to grow in size the longer Geralt looked at her, towering between blinks to stand shoulder to shoulder with her beast.

“Rejoice, Instrument, the Witcher has come for you.” 

“No, he hasn’t.” Jaskier warbled. The woman hummed and turned to face Geralt fully. 

_ Oh _ , he thought distantly, she was Death. 

Every inch of his body broke out into immediate goosebumps. Fear like nothing he’d ever felt locked his knees and sent ice deep into his veins. Instinct made him step back, but his body refused to cooperate, as frozen as a startled deer. 

“Geralt of Rivia,” Death said and Geralt found himself on his knees in the dirt before he could register his own movement. Jaskier gasped and grabbed at her robes, tugging like an insistent child.

“ _ Morticia _ , stop!” 

Death ignored him, looming without having moved at all over the entire meadow. “Destiny saw fit to grant you an Instrument of Fate to guide your Path, yet you have rejected her gift. Do you desire to cause additional pain?” 

“No,” Geralt said, pushing the word past frozen lips. It felt as if the sky were pressing in around him, crushing him into the earth; an immovable, unfightable force.

“Why have you come.” 

“Jaskier.” 

“Jaskier wishes to join me,” Death said, “To once again fill the space between life and death with song.” 

Geralt’s heart thundered against his rib cage, “ _ No _ .” 

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathed, then tugged again at Death’s robes, “Morticia, leave him alone!” 

“Once,” Death said, “You begged to join me; lost amongst the Grasses as you were. You felt me then, as you feel me now. Do you think you can make demands of me?” 

“No,” Geralt said, “A request. A favor.” 

“You would ask a favor from Death?” Her tone rose, interested or offended, Geralt couldn’t tell, but he latched onto the reaction. 

“For Jaskier,” Geralt said, “Anything.” 

The force pushing him into the earth snapped, releasing him and he gasped, barely catching himself on his hands. Every muscle in his body was shaking as if after a battle. Jaskier dove for him, snarling something that Geralt didn’t have the mind to try to decipher, and propped him upright with one hand over his spine and the other over his heart. 

“I accept.” Death said, she was suddenly only inches away. Geralt could not suppress the full body shiver that shook him, “And I shall collect it  _ now _ .” 

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Jaskier snapped. 

“Apologize for your weaponized words.” Death said.

Jaskier removed his hands Geralt back to cover his face and groan, long and low, bending forward as the note progressed. 

“I didn’t mean any of it, Jaskier.” Geralt said. He reached out and gently peeled Jaskier’s hands away from his face and set their joined hands on his lap, “Forgive me.” 

“Vow to never speak ill of the Instrument again.” Death said. 

Geralt’s response was immediate, a memorized “I can’t.” 

He tensed in expectation of the blow, knowing his answer was wrong, and cursing Vesemir’s age old lessons about the dangers of promises.  _ Only the fae and djinn track promises,  _ he could hear the old witcher’s voice echoing harshly,  _ You idiots will forget and sign your damn lives away. Don’t promise shit you can’t keep.  _

“Oh, Vesemir." Death sighed and sat back on her heels, "Practical and stupid." 

"I cannot promise that," Geralt said, catching Jaskier's eyes, "But I can promise to try." 

“That’s all life is really,” Jaskier sniffed, titling forward to press his forehead to Geralt’s, “Just trying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading. Please pop a comment below if you'd liked it!


End file.
